Harlem Renaissance quotes

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poor black cherubs rise at seven
To do celestial chores.
We shall not always plant while others reap
So in the dark we hide the heart that bleeds,
And wait, and tend our agonizing seeds.
The night whose sable breast relieves the stark,
White stars, is no less lovely being dark,
Quaint, outlandish heathen gods
Black men fashion out of rods,
Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,
So I make an idle boast;
All day long and all night through,
One thing only must I do:
What is last year's snow to me,
Last year's anything? The tree
Lord, I fashion dark gods, too,
Daring even to give You
Dark despairing features
What is Africa to me:
Copper sun or scarlet sea,
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